


What Never Faded

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Deviates From Canon, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Modern Era, Music, Non-Graphic Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 07:20:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12127362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: There was no burning, other than that of mutual desire.





	What Never Faded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



Daeron sighed as the violins intoned a well-known melody. 

“Do we really have to stay,” he whispered into Maglor's mind, “this is the second time tonight.”

Maglor's reply was as heartfelt as it was expectable. “She won't be alive forever.” 

Daeron shifted on his seat, trying to find a position that wouldn't kill his legs. The human idea of a comfortable chair had never much agreed with his own, and they had already been sitting for a while. But Maglor didn't pay attention to trifling details such as those, not when music took hold of his soul. His bright eyes – intruding eyes – were hidden behind sunglasses even though it was night, but Daeron knew what burned inside them.

Maglor listened with almost religious devotion, determined not to let a single note, a single flourish escape him. The singer had aged in body, but not in her art. Daeron still remembered the first time they had heard that one song thanks to a live performance broadcasted on a grainy TV screen while they were travelling from west to east at a time when doing so wasn't as easy as it was now. The woman had been in the prime of life, and the beauty of her voice had eclipsed even the poor quality of the images, poorer than even the shoddiest vision an inexperienced elven singer could summon. 

The music and the words weren't exceptional on their own, the strength, the beauty – and the precision – with which she sang them were. Daeron himself had been impressed, and it was rare indeed that a human voice left its mark in his mind.

But for Maglor there was yet more to it: the song made Maglor think of his father. 

Daeron's hand surreptitiously reached for Maglor's, and clenched around it. Memories and longing crept on his skin as the song unfolded. Maglor's mouth shaped the words: 'I feel you...'

_"I feel you – I'm dying to meet you."_

The sigh Daeron let out as the music died out was a sigh of relief, relief from an emotion that was too great to withstand for long, and was drowned out by the clapping of hands. Maglor disentangled his hand from Daeron's, and began clapping too. The singer thanked the audience, smiled at them. Maglor lifted his glasses and held her gaze for a moment, then bowed his head, silently thanking her in return. 

On the way back to the hotel, Maglor didn't speak a word. Not that Daeron expected him to. Maglor had never made a mystery of his love for his father, of the fact that he and his brothers shared the same carnal greedy unbridled love for their father. At the end of the First Age, it had seemed something far less appalling than killing innocents in the name of that very love. Hundreds of hundreds of years had shaken off the kinslayings, their trail of blood lost in the muddy soil of time, but Fëanor and his six dead sons had kept up with them, casting a shadow for Daeron to cloak himself in, a shadow that was not-a-little disquieting yet not unwelcoming.

Side by side, they ducked under a portico and turned into a narrow alley, their footsteps almost silent on the cobbled stones, making them inconspicuous to the minds of the few passers-by, belying what met the humans' sight. 

The air in the hotel room was cool and crisp, the curtains swelled softly by the pleasant late summer breeze. 

Maglor took off his glasses and carefully draped his jacket over the back of the only chair in the room and turned to Daeron. Hooking his hands on Daeron's shoulders, he drew him down with one decisive yank, and plastered his mouth on his. Sometimes it still made Daeron laugh – how Maglor who was so much younger – and shorter – than him took the lead as if it was the way things should be. Commanding his father had called him, and commanding Canafinwë had always been. Canafinwë who had sung alongside the Maiar and listened on to the Valar's own song and who had lived most of his life at his side, homeless and restless. 

Daeron was happy to let him do, most of the time. He unzipped his pants and rolled them down his legs, kicking his sandals off in the process. Their shirts and Maglor's pants followed suit, their hands seconding one another just like their mouths, which met and parted and found each other again like the notes of a well-structured melody. 

_“Do you love me?”_ Daeron asked, mimicking the song, when Maglor knelt between his legs on the bed and the difference in height between them mattered not at all.

Maglor laughed against his neck, drew damp lips up his jaw, and traced his lower lip with his tongue before whispering into his mouth: “Fool.” 

Daeron smiled, but then again he would have smiled even if Maglor the Murderer had just spit blood into his mouth. He let Maglor blanket his face and neck in kisses and lay back when Maglor stooped forward and down and down. Maglor's curls spilled all over his neck and shoulders as he slid his mouth down towards Daeron's nipples, arching his ass up in invitation. 

The music crackled between them as Maglor moved on top of him, slithered up Daeron's chest, making his wet nipples tingle, washed down his arms until it felt like a veritable fire burned in his fingertips and he could draw patterns of passion and longing with them on Maglor's skin. Daeron held onto Maglor's hips, thrusting up to meet him as he descended on his cock over and over.

Sweaty and wickedly handsome after sex, Maglor padded over to the chair and retrieved the Silmaril from the pocket of his jacket, where he always kept it, close to his heart, and sat back down on the edge of the bed. Daeron propped himself up on his elbow and cast a reflexive glance full of mistrust towards that jewel of ruin. They had argued and fought viciously over it for a long time, until Daeron grew tired of it. And Maglor came with the Silmaril, or not at all. 

“Does it sing to you tonight?” he asked, kneeling up behind Maglor and all but draping himself on his back.

“ _A world that bursts inside of me_ ,” Maglor sang. 

Daeron quickly clamped a hand over Maglor's mouth. He loved to hear him sing, but Maglor's singing didn't agree with humans: their neighbour in the last hotel they had stayed at had flung himself out of the window of his room, and the previous month a fire had destroyed several buildings around a park where he and Maglor had spent the night talking. Daeron wasn't much concerned about the safety of humans, but he wanted to avoid the hassle of slinking out of the hotel when they had just begun having fun. 

His eyes poised on the jewel, even as Maglor started kissing his palm, curious whether the Gilthoniel would try to burn Maglor or not. The scars on Maglor's palms came and went, dug nasty-looking furrows on his amber skin, faded, then renewed themselves. Rather than keeping Maglor from his treasure, they had opened up a path for him to take inside himself the power of the Silmaril that was not born of the light of the two trees or anything the Valar had sung into being. Daeron had seen Maglor's palms glow on nights when he was awake and Maglor slept. He had watched Maglor blow light off them like dust, to be carried on the wind and work his will wherever it landed. Daeron often wondered what it felt like to have one's blood linked to that sort of power. Not that he rued not being of Fëanor's blood. 

There was no burning other than that of mutual desire. Daeron uncovered Maglor's mouth, but Maglor caught one of his fingers between his teeth, cat-like, and licked it before letting it go. 

“So, will we still follow her?” he asked, dragging his now wet finger down Maglor's chin. 

“Do you mind that much?”

“Well, I'd rather not sit for hours in a chair that I barely fit.”

“Pray that we'll find large, comfortable chairs in the next venue then.”

Daeron snorted then gave a short laugh. He scooted back on the bed, bringing Maglor with him until Maglor was lying face-up, a hand clutching the Silmaril to his chest, his eyes, now appeased and serene, but no less sharp, no less intruding, gazing up at him with a world of love.


End file.
